And Everything Changes
by dixiedream1n
Summary: Feral instincts, when applied to a growing-up Rogue, make for a disturbing situation for the other adult X-Men - but she doesn't care.
1. Unwelcome Reality

**A/N:** Like my others, this is set in my own X-Men universe. Which means it ignores about half of X3 the movie: i.e., Jean didn't turn evil and no major characters died, but the parts about the Cure and Magneto's attempted war all happened. Which is why Jean can reference them here.

* * *

I should have expected this. I am a telepath; I should have _known_ this was coming. That's all that runs through my mind for the first full half-minute of the time I spend with my back pressed against the north wing's third-floor hallway wall, breathing hard and feeling grateful to be in one piece. I should have seen this coming. Should have known this was going to, eventually, happen. I got complacent after the first few months, stopped worrying about the way a young girl clung so close to the adult man that had rescued her, because he had done nothing untoward toward her – nothing beyond what my research described as normal affectionate behavior for an alpha-type feral male toward a member of his family – and the situation seemed contained there. Seemed safe.

Safe. Safe while Rogue was immature, I realize now. Safe while she was young and uncertain and exploring teenage romance in books and with a boyfriend she could hardly touch. He kept her safe when he singlehandedly tore apart a small army that assaulted this school, in defense of her and her classmates. He kept her safe when war threatened and she made a decision to take the Cure – thank God that didn't last, for her or most other mutants, because I remember the night after when she came into my room crying that she was sorry, because she just wanted to be able to touch, she didn't want to alienate herself from the only family she had left. But during the rough couple of weeks before the suppressant worked its way out of her body, he was there for her. Close, often silent, protective even when there wasn't need. Once or twice I got close enough that I could swear I heard him _purring_ as they sat together on the couch in the den, a barely-audible low thrum of sound that I had been unaware he could produce. My self-directed studies about the feral species had left me with the impression that he was of a canid line, probably wolf-based; he must have a little felid in him too to allow for that trait, I remember thinking, and leaving it at that without concern for what it might mean other than to comfort her.

I had thought it sweet, that he was still looking after this young woman nearly grown now. I had barely considered that he might enjoy her company as much as she did his. I had been entirely blind to what it might mean to him when she finally began to get a grasp on control of her mutation. I thought it a little odd that he suddenly chose to take a solo mission _then_, one that would take him away for several months, but after her first days of disappointment Rogue had rallied nicely and continued both her practice with her skin and her X-Man training with no apparent ill feeling.

I was there at the exact moment she proved mastery over her energy-draining skin. The entire Institute knew it by the end of the day; her friends threw an impromptu party and for the first time I got to see her collapse in a sleepy heap with her girlfriends on the floor, touching fearlessly, giggling madly after too much sugar and dancing, and I smiled, happy to see her able at last to act and feel like the young woman she was instead of the self-conscious, wary creature that had so often peered out from behind her wide brown eyes. I saw this, I _knew_ that she had passed her twenty-second birthday while Logan had been gone, and still somehow I thought her, was _used_ to thinking her, as innocent as a child.

I am a telepath. I should have seen this coming a mile off. Years before. I didn't, and I still don't know how I did not.

He came home this evening, just in time for dinner. I watched her run up and hug him, saw his surprise when she told her news, then the rare full grin that stretched his lips far enough to show sharp canines but that was not a snarl. Saw the way he hugged her back and the very deliberate rubbing strokes of the line of his jaw against the top of her head, a scent-marking gesture I hadn't seen him perform since she was young and small and in need of a guardian. I wondered at that, briefly, but was quickly distracted, _let_ myself be distracted from the inkling of a thought I had not wanted to have. Let myself forget all I had read about his race, those years before when he'd first entered our lives. Let myself ignore – and _how_ did I ignore, I wonder now? – the way he stayed close to her side for the rest of the night, joining in casual after-dinner conversation like he rarely did, a conversation, I can now remember, peppered with small, casual touches. Eventually he slid out from the gathering, disappeared as was his habit for some place less populated, and I didn't think to listen in on his thoughts as he went. It was a matter of telepathic ethics not to drop shields and reach into anyone's mind without their permission or known necessity... and I did not then see the necessity. I didn't turn my attention away from the good-humored medical debate Hank and I were exchanging until I abruptly noticed that Rogue was also missing... and even then, I reached out with only half my attention, expecting her to be with Kitty or Jubilee, or maybe that new boy Remy-

When I found her, I was startled into momentary silence, for what she was projecting in that low-level but constant way non-psi's did was not casual humor, nor shy flirtation, but a delighted confidence that had less actual surprise to it than it did anticipation, a _knowing_ on a sensual level I never expected from our Rogue, and which had me opening my mental field wider to find out who she was with-

And then came true shock. A feeling that didn't even leave room at first for any other emotion, one that had Charles and Scott pausing their own discussion to question me, my husband reaching through our bond, our mentor casting his own telepathic net out. What I felt, all tangled with Rogue's sendings – _Marie_, the contact whispered strong, _not Rogue but Marie_ – was only half human, the unique skewed-feeling mind that had discouraged me in the past merely by its very nature from probing too deep. And the humanity was a thinner layer than usual. What was being projected now was enough to make me flush with heat and embarrassment and horror all at once. Enough to send my eyes locking with Scott's, mine wide, his hidden by his visor but expressive face telling his own reaction to the rush of hot-blooded, ferociously tender _lust_, wound entirely through with a protective snarling ward strong enough to make me instinctively slam up my shields again almost immediately. I couldn't move but to just stand there and breathe for a few moments, feeling my cheeks flame first with that briefly-shared arousal, then with anger. Taking a sharp, deep breath, I spun to our wheelchair-bound leader, then uselessly toward the doorway into the empty hall. "_Professor_...!"

Charles Xavier himself was looking a little affected, clearing his throat a couple of times even as he lifted a staying hand. "No, Jean! Do not interfere; he will try to kill you if you interfere!"

"Professor!" Scott turned at my side, scandalized, ignoring the surprise and soon-to-be-clarified confusion on Hank and Ororo's faces. "You can't-! _He _can't-! The _students_-!"

"Are in no danger," Charles finished, leaving us both blinking at him. Brushing fingers briefly against his own cheek as though to calm his own reaction, he took a deep breath. "I truly do not know why I did not see this coming. I have some familiarity with the feral mind – I merely became so _used_ to it being the way he _was_ with Rogue..."

Hank blinked twice... then his own nose twitched slightly. He had the grace to look at least slightly embarrassed when he straightened massive shoulders and inquired carefully, "Has Logan claimed her as mate, then?"

There was silence in the room for perhaps a second, the others of us looking at the good doctor. I was reminded all of a sudden that the highly-intelligent man I worked beside, who had a shaggy pelt to match any animal's, who went by the _code name_ Beast, was in fact a full-blooded feral himself. He so rarely showed it the way Logan did. It was too easy to ignore one man's physical form in favor of his oft-flowery diction, and the other's mostly-human appearance when his habits were only just less than wild. But Hank McCoy would _know_ the feral mind...

"You expected this?" It finally came from Ororo, her tone careful, questioning. A gently regal frequent proponent of the philosophy of live and let live, our self-titled African 'weather witch' was a marvelous diplomat, but just now she sounded more non-judgmental than I could bring myself to want to be in this particular instance.

Hank looked a little abashed. "Not... precisely. Not as such. I _suspected_ it could happen, at some point. He has marked her as 'pack' since they first arrived or possibly before, and over the years has not lessened the strength of that claim. In his defense, I do not believe he recognized himself at the time what it could lead to. He has always held most people at arm's length, and since the onset of his amnesia I do not believe he has, in fact, been _educated_ in the ways of our kind. What he knows and does seems to come entirely from the level of instinct. I do not believe Logan ever meant Rogue any harm when she was young, nor would he harm any of our other children. In fact, he has demonstrated in past that his instinct to protect juveniles is quite intact. It is only recently, now that she is physically mature and welcoming to him, that his, ahem, more 'animal' nature has pressed this issue. They are..." and he looked more abashed then; if he could blush under blue fur I would swear he was doing so, "compatible, and not related. They spend a great deal of time together. Their scents were already partially blended; I... suspected it might come to something of this nature. One day."

We were all silent a moment more... finally Scott cleared his throat and looked to Xavier. "So what do we do, Professor? Leave them... let them be _together_?"

Charles was looking at Hank with a very thoughtful expression, after a moment resting his elbows on the arms of his motorized chair and steepling his fingers in front of his lips. "If it is as Dr McCoy says, it appears there is not much else we _can_ do."

My husband was in full, spine-stiff offense now, and I nudged him with supportive agreement. "Logan is a _grown man_, potentially over a hundred years old thanks to his healing factor. Rogue is only a girl!"

Hank was looking uncomfortable... but he was holding his chin up. I knew enough about ferals to recognize that part of the reason he and Logan got along so well was that Hank was _not_ of alpha type. This made him dislike contention of any sort. However, he had proven many times over in battle that he knew how to stand his ground when he felt he must. I recognized that same determined look now. "Scott, she is a young _woman_ – she is old enough to legally make her own choice in this matter. The age difference..." He spread one broad, claw-tipped paw of a hand. "May be so vast as to be for all purposes meaningless. In appearance they are not more than ten years apart, if that. With her mutation, if they both chose it, she could theoretically take enough of his healing to stay _with_ him far longer than any other could. And she may not _be_ feral, but she knows the feral mind in a uniquely first-hand fashion. She is well-suited to be his mate... from a purely objective perspective."

I looked at my colleague in shock and no small amount of betrayal; he looked back unhappily. I turned my eyes to Ororo, and after a moment my friend shrugged slightly, smooth face not betraying her own opinion, although I received the vague feeling she didn't _have_ a strong one in this case – which I was going to have to ask her about later. After a moment more, I cleared my own throat, and turned to our leader. "Charles, I have to go on record as saying I agree entirely with Scott that this doesn't seem like a _good_ thing."

Grey-blue eyes met my own green candidly. "I am not certain at this point whether it is or is not myself, Jean. However, I _do_ know that there is nothing we can do to safely address the issue to any resolution until they choose to emerge from wherever they have retreated to."

"Denned," Hank supplied, quietly. "They have denned, and our Professor is correct. No feral would accept intrusion at this time, and we have all seen the Wolverine in action enough times to know that it would not be wise to provoke him. This will be best settled when both ardours and tempers have cooled, and we are all once more capable of acting as rational beings."

Scott huffed, beside me. "_Logan_ is rarely rational on the best of days!"

"Be that as it may," Charles intoned, and now there was the velvet mental edge of command, "Dr McCoy's advice in this case is wise. We cannot afford bloodshed amongst ourselves. We will wait."

Scott shifted at my side, our bond humming with tense anger. Jaw tight, he finally gave a short, sharp nod, spun on his heel, and marched out of the room. I stared at Charles a long moment more, then flicked my eyes to Ororo and Hank in turn, before shaking my head and turning to follow.

I was angry, there was no doubt about that. Angry, worried, a small bit guiltily jealous (although I would never cheat on Scott, I had somewhat enjoyed having Logan's attention in years past). Despite what Hank said, I didn't trust that this was good for Rogue. Age aside, Logan was far too rough and world-wise for a girl like her, best friend or no. He had every capability to hurt her emotionally, not to mention physically; especially with the force of passion I knew him capable of (not _personally_, but knew). Despite every reason it might not be safe to intercede, I couldn't reconcile myself to leaving her in his hands uncontested, and I was under the firm belief that even in full feral mode he would not purposefully harm me. So with shoulders squared, I changed course from our own suite's hallway to the one Logan's room was at the end of, braced myself, telekinetically undid the lock, and opened the door.

Which... a sudden snarling flurry of movement and hard-muscled force, bare skin moving too fast to allow its features to be distinct, bared white fangs, a heavy stab of two sets of razor-sharp blades placed deep into the wall inches from my arms, and a heart-attack-inducing volume of furious alpha-feral roar delivered straight to my face... brought me to where I am now. Slumped against the wall opposite the re-slammed door, quivering between six plaster-trickling holes, taking quick shuddering breaths, and thanking God that I'm still _alive_.

Even more than before, I'm convinced that this situation is _not_ a good thing for Rogue. But I'm shaken enough just now that I don't trust even my telekinesis to take hold strongly or quickly enough to keep the Wolverine contained should he attack again. In comparison to what I know him too-capable of, that was a relatively mild warning. _Scott_ is shaken enough, I can feel it through our bond, that he is running my way and wouldn't allow me enough time to even try. Charles – of course he would pick _that_ up – is projecting concern and disappointment in my direction.

And in the midst of all that fury, Logan was _strongly_ projecting protectiveness as well as possessiveness. I can only pray that that element will keep Rogue safe until this... whatever-it-is... is over. Can only pray, and wait with bated breath and mind rawly exposed because, no matter the danger to myself, to ourselves, if Logan hurts that girl Scott and I are going in. My husband's panicked scoldings now aside, I know he agrees with me on that much.

The kids come first, after all. They always will.

* * *

**A/N:** Jean is not being a 'bad guy' here, really... she sincerely wants to do what's right by all the kids, including Rogue. But she was not ready for this. Consider: if cultural differences are hard enough for humans to accept and overcome, think about _species_ differences...


	2. Instinct

**A/N:** Finally, the feral's point of view.

* * *

Despite what many of the X-Men might think, Logan Howlett was not an animal.

He was _half_ animal, true; his feral heritage made sure of that. It showed at some times more than others – particularly during sex and when engaged in battle. In the former case, he consciously controlled it, held himself leashed just enough to keep from frightening his partner while still allowing frustrated instincts just enough room to feel at least somewhat satisfied. In the latter, he let it go, reveling in the defeat of his enemies, the scent of their blood that was a promise they couldn't come at him again, and the protection of those-who-were-his-_own_ with every fiber of his being. Particularly when, occasionally, faced with another feral; those fights were as violent a tangle as he hoped the kids at the Institute would never need to see, tooth and claw and blood on both sides before his unique armament could finish the job.

But Logan, while strongly influenced by his instincts, was not _ruled_ by them. In most circumstances he could say no to a woman, could even say no to a fight although he would find himself growling at occasionally determined offenders, showing just enough non-human canine tooth for them to get the message that this was _not_ someone they really wanted to tangle with tonight (and if the occasional bar tough refused to get that message, he figured enough was enough and gave them the quick, efficient beating they _hadn't_ been looking for). Logan was, after all, an alpha male, pack-less but a feral alpha male all the same, and no one was going to make _him_ eat sawdust. But this was all, still, a matter of conscious choice.

Which is why, when faced with a scent that made his head swim, stomach tighten, and the wolf inside him whimper and roll its belly pleadingly to the sky, he was entirely blindsided.

Alright, well maybe not _entirely_. Truth was, he'd been ignoring the urge to claim Marie as more-than-friend for a few years now. Not when they first met, oh no – his feral nature basically assured that; one of the strongest instincts in a healthy feral's repertoire was the protection of young and she was most definitely that. He would not have imagined harming the 15-year-old she'd been then, not even at her most annoying. He growled when irritated, he showed displeasure when she required scolding, but he would not have laid a harsh hand on her – nor an inappropriate one either. After they'd joined the X-Men's little club he'd been too busy sniffing after Jean Gray anyway, and seeking his forgotten past, to even consider it.

But a few years later, as her body matured and so did her unrequited crush on him, she did begin to call to him. He alternately found excuses to spend weeks out of town and excuses to pull her over on the couch to watch a game or a movie together. By the time Jean and Scott finally got married, he wasn't even overly bothered by the fact that the red-haired doctor was now out of reach. He wasn't letting himself at Marie either, but at least it made for relative peace in the mansion.

During her twenty-first year, however, something changed. Whether it was something in her own biology, or his, suddenly it became harder and harder to stay away from the girl who had once been practically his ward. Harder to keep his hands from straying over layers of silk and gauze that did nothing to cool his interest, harder to keep himself from brushing his body against hers in mostly-innocent ways, to keep from grappling her closer against him during sparring sessions. Marie had filled out as she'd grown up, gained self-confidence and a sway to her step once she had even just _begun_ to gain control over her mutation, knowing that soon she would no longer need to fear her own skin. She had matured – into something that his animal nature howled for. In desperation, he'd taken a solo mission, an undercover one, that took him out of New York for almost four months. The itch remained while he was gone, frustrating him by rejecting the company of other women with an odd crawling under his skin whenever he tried, but for the most part the matter was bearable. He returned to the Institute feeling more in control and relieved with that, as much data as the Professor had hoped for in hand – and after his debrief had wandered off the join the rest of the facility for dinner.

It was at dinner that he finally saw – and _smelled_ – her again. He was grateful that he'd snagged a corner table alone; there was no way he'd have been able to hide the way his body tensed when she, Jubilee, and Kitty walked in the door. The way his grip on the utensils had tightened until knuckles went white, and muscles down his back and legs twitched. The tiny whine that startled and embarrassed him, caught in the very back of his throat and quickly stifled. She was halfway across the room when she spotted him – a journey that he had been unable to pull his eyes away from – and broke into a broad, welcoming grin, changing direction at a fast walk to welcome him home. He swallowed hard, smiled for her; didn't dare get up and show the room his sudden arousal. But he leaned into her hug, allowed his own arm to slide possessively around her waist, listened to her excited-quick exclamation about finally having gained full control, look Logan _look_, that sent his senses reeling knowing that that last protective barrier between them had been overcome. He barely managed to limit his response to a grin, a sideways hug, a possessive stroke of his cheek and jaw over her head that _he couldn't help_; said something short and rough-teasing and only half-aware, and sent her off again to get food. And then watched her go, fighting not to pant visibly, the wolf in his mind scrabbling and whining, chewing and clawing at the edges of his waning control to get out.

That _scent_ – it was impossible to define perfectly, but it _was_ perfect; it was all woman, pheromones of fertile female, untouched but ripe, ready, warm, mouthwatering; he could drown in it, _was_ drowning in it. Marie, his little Marie, was little no longer, and she was basically in _heat_, gloriously as close to a true heat as a human could get. And now that she was _available_ for the taking, the shifts and swing in her own body language were entirely welcoming, making him flash fast jealous glances around the room to make sure no other male was taking the same notice. Blind and scent-deaf as the human mutants were, nobody seemed to be looking twice, and with at least _that_ need satisfied, his eyes snapped back to following Marie-

And then he shook himself, hard, and forced his eyes back to his plate. Throat thick, he wasn't even hungry anymore, not for food. With a low growl, he threw his napkin into his half-full plate, grabbed the whole mess, and chucked it into the garbage on his way out the door. Passing by a mirror in the hallway he caught sight of his eyes, normally hazel but now gleaming wild-amber as they usually only were in battle, and choked back another whine. Oh hell. Oh _hell_. This wasn't good. This was not a good thing. This was _Marie_. This was little Marie, his friend, his guarded-one, the child he'd snatched more than once from the jaws, figurative and literal, of death. The one who'd sought his advice. The one who-

Who was grown up now. Who _wasn't_ actually related to him. Who was legal by all human standards. Who had been compatible to him on a mental level for years, the one person he was content to have around even when he wanted no one at all. Who was...

Oh hell.

He had imprinted on her. Without having even thought about it at the time, he now realized that he had imprinted on her. And now he _wanted_ her. Physically, sexually, emotionally. He wanted her desperately. _Needed_ her. He could only see two options at this point – run and not come back, or- Or claim her. Claim her as his mate.

Retreating to the sitting room – unable to bear to be too far away, and yet needing the space to get his instincts and his body under control – he collapsed into a chair and bent forward, elbows on his knees and clasped fists pressed against his bowed forehead. _Damn_... What to do. What to do.

His instincts knew _exactly_ what to do; the moment he thought of it he was inundated with images that made his groin tighten again. His mind and heart were the ones tying themselves in a knot. It wasn't that he had a problem with the idea of spending even more time with Marie – or even, if he was to be entirely honest with himself, having her sexually. What _was_ a problem was the way he knew the rest of the Institute would react to that. How could he explain to humans this need, this _thing_ that felt like it would drive him insane? And what about Marie herself; the girl had had a crush on him for years but recently hadn't shown signs of it as much. Would _she_ really want to be bound to him for the rest of her life? And – he was a healer. She wasn't. How would it affect _him_ (and his chest squeezed tight at this thought) to watch and feel her grow old beside him... to _lose_ her so soon, in comparison to his life span, after he'd found her?

But then... maybe. His heart beat a bit faster at the thought. Her mutation – maybe. If she would allow it. _If_ she would want it... Maybe. Maybe.

Nostrils flaring with the possibilities, he forced himself to sit still, lifting his head enough to press lips hard to his knuckles, eyes sliding toward the doorway, from which direction the sounds of the dining room still reached his sensitive ears. Was he seriously thinking about this? Was he... did he _really_ want...?

Yes. Yes. Oh by all the little mercy there was in this world, yes. If he had to be honest with himself – and he did – he didn't actually _care_ what the other X-Men would say. Not enough to stop him. Not if Marie was willing. That was the one variable that had yet to be determined. And yet his inner self wasn't very concerned about that. The wolf was half-curled in the back of his mind, eager yet satisfied with Logan's having given in this far, confident that his mate would not reject him. The feral grimaced slightly at his other self, taking a deep breath and sighing it out, looking up. Well. He supposed that was that. He just had to be able to control himself long enough to _actually_ have a serious _talk_ with her-

Which suddenly barely seemed possible again as her scent smacked into him at full force once more as the gaggle of young adults called the Junior Team burst into the room talking a mile a minute and arguing over the remote. The older X-Men were right behind, Scooter and Jean and 'Ro and Chuck, and it was with no small flare of panic that Logan scrabbled to slam his mental shields down. His throat still tight, he affected as casual a sprawl as he could and still hide the pressure at his groin, quipped a few gruff comments back to brief questions he was asked, and cracked with relief into the beer Marie brought him before she settled on the chair arm by his side.

It was torture... and yet, his half of the decision made, it wasn't as impossible as he feared. Now that he was no longer fighting the idea, he breathed her in deep, and as hard as his body ached, at the same time he was somehow soothed. He leaned just a little sideways and couldn't help a very small smile as Marie rested an arm loosely across his shoulders, casual even, and laughed at something someone (he didn't _care_ who or what) said. Quivering yet grounded, Logan managed to last... his time-sense was hazy... probably around an hour, before he got her attention long enough to murmur that he needed to see her later, excused himself from the gathering, and retreated to the safety of his quarters, the den that he had long since made of the small suite he had been given.

The knock came only minutes later. Gritting his teeth against the inner urge to howl in victory, Logan managed to bark a gruff invitation to enter. When Marie stepped without hesitation into his den, then closed the door behind her, he fought and this time lost the battle against a whine. Chocolate-brown eyes softening at the sound, the girl – _woman, female, mate_ – came over toward him; it was with great effort that he raised and spread both hands to halt her before she came within reach.

"No, M'rie," he only just managed words, needed words, _necessary_ words, "not yet, not – sit down. There's somethin' I gotta – gotta talk t' you about."

Looking curious and a bit concerned, Marie chose the edge of the bed, and his groin tightened up hard at that. Hell, he realized; _he_ should have moved, gestured her to the chair he'd been instead standing near, by the window – there was only limited furniture in the room as it was. It was done now; he reached behind him to grip the windowsill in strong fingers and lean back a bit, looking at her as she did him. The silence stretched on for several seconds... half a minute... finally she spoke up again, and his eyes closed involuntarily as the sound of her voice flowed over him like honey, as sweet and heavy as her scent, exciting him, soothing him, making him crave and yet feel like that craving was being answered all at once. "Logan? Yer scarin' me a bit, sugah, are you alright?"

A very soft whine escaped him again, and he sighed out deeply, golden-hazel eyes opening. He reached out to turn on the lamp next to him, bringing more light to the room, illuminating the feral gleam. Marie sucked in a quick-quiet breath, surprised, then half-understanding. No fear, not from her, and he fought back another whine of gratefulness.

"Logan. What's wrong?"

"Nothin' – or maybe everythin'," he struggled for words at first... was grateful when more came easily after they got started. "Marie – how much do ya know about feral biology?"

"Biology?" She looked surprised, then considering. Not dumb, his girl... he felt a thin stream of pride flow through his chest. "Ah know you have animal DNA, that that sets ya apart from other mutants. That some ferals don't have any real power at all, and scientists still argue whether y'were the first mutants, way back, or if yer a whole brother race instead and some of ya just became mutants like some humans became mutants, gettin' gifts. Almost all ferals are canid or felid. Your line is canid mostly, right? Though y' purr too. So a mix?"

He nodded a bit, roughly, and looking more sure of herself, she continued.

"Most ferals live in family groups, or packs. Though that ain't biology, that's... well, ah guess some is instinct, right?"

He nodded a bit again.

"Right. So, some ferals live alone, like you. Or – kinda alone. We're kind of your pack... right?"

"_You_ are," he replied roughly, nodding. "Little bit some o' th' kids. What about biology relatin' to – y'know – sex?" He said it a bit awkwardly, not for himself, but for her. Due to her mutation, she hadn't had much opportunity to have personal experience with that. Even having achieved control recently, she still hadn't yet taken a lover; he would know if she had, would smell another male on her, and he couldn't, which meant – or did it – but it _could_... He whined again, softly, mind racing down that rabbit trail and brought back only by the sound of her voice.

"Sex?" She was blushing slightly; only slightly though, thank all heaven and earth and stars beyond. Not ashamed then. Not afraid. "Ah know yer senses play a part; smell an' taste especially an'- Logan, ah – you know ah don't, ah haven't- But ah know _you_ have, ya do; ah always knew that; why're you asking _me?_"

"B'cause." He was going to have to explain this to her. Damn. Logan forced himself into the chair he stood beside, leaning partway forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped white-knuckled around each other. "Ferals – some of us're more easy than others on th' matter. But we all got the instinct, buried deeper in some – like me – to take a real mate. Not just sex. Bond, partnership – love I guess you'd say is part of it, but it's more, it's-" He shook his head. "I don't know how t' explain it right. But when ya find that, it don't quit. Don't go away. It's instinct. It's want. It's need. It's damned _painful_."

Marie's eyes widened a bit; no, no idiot his girl. "Logan," she breathed; and was that a flash of jealousy? Heavens... "Y're tellin' me you got hit with this? Where, who-? Ya ain't _leavin'_ us, are ya?" That was fear now, outright and real. He couldn't help but respond, whining deeply and out of his chair before his conscious mind could catch up to his movements, close to her and hands grasping hers without hesitation, without fear. Skin on skin, his nerves sang; his throat tightened.

"No." He had to assure her of _that_ right away. "No, baby. Not leavin'. Not yet." He was on his knees now before her; didn't remember getting there, but there he was, hands still on hers, looking up, and she was looking back at him, eyes wide and gentle and deep and mature far beyond her years. It took a second, again, to remember what he was saying. "It's a mess, it's a real mess baby. I imprinted an' I didn't realize it, and now it's a damned mess. But I _want_ it, can't help but want it; kid, honey, M'rie..." His hand was lifting, only half with his knowledge, settling against her cheek, body shivering at that first touch, every muscle coiled with _need_ and a tenuous, _tenuous_ self-control.

No, no idiot his girl at all. Brown eyes widened; her jaw dropped a bit. Her gaze flitted away, aside a moment... then back. "_Logan?_ Are ya _serious_, honey?"

"Serious as pain," he replied all too truthfully, finally allowing himself to release the long, low whine that was choking in his throat. "Yer scent, way ya move, _pheromones_ – yer body's _ready_ now, and- Tell me, tell me, M'rie. Gotta give you th' choice, you're just a girl, ya gotta lot of choices left, lotta – life. Me, I'm old and don't know how much older I'll _get_, I'm yer friend but is that enough, y' gotta _know_ baby, ya can't just soothe me down an' be gone; ya touch me and it's forever, girl. Ya don't want this an' I've gotta _go_, _now_."

"How long do ah have to d'cide?" she wondered aloud – then looked at his face, and her expression shifted; her eyes widened slightly, deepened, _knew_. "Not long," she whispered the answer to her own question. "Logan – you know ah've cared about you, ya _know_ ah used t' imagine, t'... But that was a girl's dream, wasn't it, this is..."

"Nothin' like you've been exposed to," he answered truthfully, and deeply, painfully apologetic. "Wish I coulda broken this t' ya easier; wish I didn't _feel_-" His words were broken off with a startled sound, her hand clasped fearlessly over his lips. He couldn't help but breathe her scent in hard; his tonguetip barely touched her palm and sent his head swimming, his breaths panting.

"Don't say that," she said fiercely. "Don't say that, Logan. Ah ain't sorry. An' ah ain't afraid. Don't go tellin' me ah'm too young an' don't know whan ah want; you've never done that b'fore, y've always been diff'rent that way, an' ah was _glad_ you were diff'rent. Always been glad you could see me fer me. Ya ain't treated me like a child in years, sugah. Don't start now. _Not_ when talkin' about somethin' like _this_."

Stunned, Logan looked up, licking his lips as her hand lifted, mouth watering with the need to taste more of her... eyes wandering to the curve of her neck, body _aching_ with the want to fasten his teeth there, not tight enough to pierce but enough to mark, and- _Hell_. Bloody _hell_. The mental image of what his instinct would do _next_-

"Ya need this," Marie was saying softly, looking at him... reaching up to touch his forehead then, stroking wind-tossed and finger-raked brown hair back, then tracing her fingertips down the line of his jaw. He whined again, deep, lips parted, the sound echoing with a hint of howl by the end. "Ya _need_ this. Ya want me." Her voice carried a note of wonder. "Ya want me as yer mate. Ah know what that means, Logan. Ah know that's big. Ah know that don't break."

Swallowing hard, fingers digging into the edge of the mattress on either side of where she was sitting, tensing around the tingle-ache of the muscles attached to his claws wanting to extend, he finally nodded, unable to find more words, beyond words, sorrowful and sorry and hopeful and grateful and _glad_ all at once. The wolf howled in victory; in joy at what she had not yet said, what her touch told him instead.

Her hands cupped to either side of his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, the stubble along his jaw, the curve of his lips, then up under his eyes and down the sides of his nose. He whined again, softly, body trembling under her hands now, held back and inflamed by her touch in the same moment. "Ah'm not afraid," she whispered. "Not afraid o' ya Logan. Never been. Not gonna be now. If ah'm gonna belong with _anyone_ for th' whole rest'a mah life, ah'd be glad fer it t' be you."

"Don't wanna-" he fought out with sheer willpower, his jaw tense, half-locked, and his tongue not feeling too used to words anymore either, "don't wanna hurt ya. Could. Gonna – we do this, gonna lose control. Gonna be – gonna be th' beast baby..."

"Won't be just that," she shook her head, eyes that _knowing_ look again, _God_, that look, as ancient as he sometimes felt, "Gonna be _you._ Ah know you, sugah. Ah _know_ you. All o' you. Ya fight so hard t' keep man and animal separate but yer _not_, Logan, it's all _you_, you're all you. I know you, I trust you."

"If I hurt ya," and he was fighting for every word now, rasped and half-growled, "promise me – promise me y'll take th' healin'. Promise me baby."

She blinked, then took a deep breath, and nodded. "Ah promise."

"Sorry – sorry t' have – to make yer first time this..." he was still apologizing as he started to uncurl upward, more to his feet, to a crouch. "Sorry-" but he wasn't, oh he wasn't; sorry for maybe hurting her yes, sorry to _have_ her no, he couldn't be, physically could _not_- "Ya _sure_?" he ought to check just one more time, the weight of need pressing hard against his mind now, threatening to overwhelm him from behind, _was_ overwhelming him, was filling him, pushing his willpower down- "No goin' back M'rie, no changin' mind, no-"

"Hush." And there – oh _God_ there, that tone in her voice, trembling a bit but commanding too, rousing his alpha instincts to answer the challenge and at the same time making him want to roll over and give her his belly. "Hush, Logan." Softer then, _oh-_ "Hush sweetheart..." Her fingers brushed his lips again then; he whined deeply, shivering, shuddering, the pressure at his groin gone over the edge into _pain_ now- "Hush love. Trust me. Trust me..."

Her head ducked; his eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard and rapidly through his nose. Her tongue flicked out against his neck, and he nearly howled. She did it again, and he was over her without remembering getting there, body pressed to hers, hands fumbling for touchable, soft, familiar _skin_-

And then she proved she knew more – or his instinct still locked in her head told her – than she would have seemed, as her lips found his jugular, then blunt teeth pressed down to either side. He _did_ howl then. Full, and sharp, and beyond reasoning, and beyond fear, and beyond doubt, both halves of his mind fully united in this at last. Cloth shredded under his hands and pulled away under hers, until there was nothing but skin, and instinct, and need, and claiming, and her arms wrapping around him, small hands stroking, mouth kissing and biting at his shoulder, body curving up into his, wrapping around his-

And he buried himself in her, muffling her sharp squeak with his mouth. And he lost himself in her, all he was and had and could be given over to her, owned by her. And she gave of herself to him, clawing and crying out and finally howling with a passion worth of a feral's herself.

And when he held her after, still trembling a little against her smaller warmth, and she stroked his back and his flanks, and murmured assurance, murmured acceptance, whispered love... then, for the first time in his memory, Logan Howlett felt whole, and entirely, completely _safe_... and home. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck, bathing his mind in their joined scents, felt her fingers move to his hair... and sighed deeply, body finally going limp, going still around hers, exhaustion and stress and need and fear having taken their toll... and finally dared allow sleep to take him.

There would be hell to pay, he figured drowsily, in that warm space right before unconsciousness. With Chuck, with the others. Was done now. Better'r worse, was done. He was not sorry. Never sorry. Alone-no-more, he could not _be_ sorry. The only acceptance he needed was Marie's, and he had that. His mate's.

Hell to pay... but heaven, undeserved but miraculously granted, gained. Seemed fair enough to him.


	3. No Regrets

******A/N:** promptfic: ache, warm

The opposite point of view.

* * *

Marie stretched slowly, only half-awake, just aware enough to notice the weight-shift of movement beside her. In the back of her mind something twitched, the remnants of years of fear-of-touch, settled now within an instant by the soothing weight of trust. Of never-fear-here. Of an instinct deeper than the human mind often dared pay tribute to, but that one wary feral had begun to teach her from the first day she'd known him. An instinct far stronger now, with maturity and intimacy, than she had been able to comprehend then, years ago. She murmured quiet question in her throat, breathing still deep-slow-sleepy, and was answered with a low-soft rumble of a purr, close. She felt her lips curve slightly without her conscious command, and ducked her chin against her chest for a yawn, body stretching out again, farther, now becoming aware of a quiet, deep ache in her body - a good one though. A welcomed one.

She felt no regrets. She could not, now, _imagine_ having regrets. She didn't really know what her team-mates, or their superiors, would say when this became public - for public, she knew, it would be. Her new mate would see no reason to hide their shifted relationship; it wasn't in his nature, his instinct. But let the chaos fall around them as it may; here, in this nest of tangled blankets, in the dimly lit, spice-musk-scented den of her best and oldest friend's private quarters, she could not imagine being anyplace else ever again. Age difference, personal histories, outside opinions all meant nothing now. They were connected by something beyond the ken of normal humans and of even most mutants, by a bond as ancient as Logan's wolf ancestors' blood. With his body, his scent, and the inhuman, exultant howl he had raised to the sky he had finally claimed her, a thing long in coming, and nothing short of death would sever that hold.

Smiling more, uncurling to the gentle stroke of a strong hand and tilting her neck contentedly open to the puff of warm breath that preceded a gentle nuzzle and a smile-curve of lips against her skin, Marie D'Ancanto decided that sounded just about right.


End file.
